


Sometimes it takes all your heart just to breathe

by Chibiness87



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Alcohol as a Coping Mechanism, Don't do it, Emotional pain, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Introspection, Missing Scenes, Mutual Pining, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, angst-fest, did i mention this was an angst-fest?, it doesn't work kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 05:36:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17037638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chibiness87/pseuds/Chibiness87
Summary: “I think I’ve figured it out. My act. Every day I wake up and I pretend that I’m not in love with you.”





	Sometimes it takes all your heart just to breathe

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been working on my Master’s dissertation for 3 months, and still haven’t reached the 5000 word limit. I’ve been writing this for 3 days, and passed 5000 words with ease… Title taken from Slow by The Fratellis

**Sometimes it takes all your heart just to breathe** \- An interwoven love story of two points of view. By **chibiness87**  
**Rating- T**. Period appropriate racism. Alcoholism.  
**Disclaimer** : not mine

* * *

 

 

The thing they don’t tell you about heartbreak; it’s never just the one heart that gets hurt.

 

Love at first sight is a preposterous notion that only idiots believe in. Because how can anyone know with one glace the person in sight is the _one_? How can they stand there and declare this person is the person they are going to spend the rest of their life with, all from a single look. How can they know their taste in music, in food, in wine? How is anyone supposed to know what talents they might have, away from the highbrows and highballs? How can they know with any degree of certainty how they will react when faced with adversary or strife? How is anyone supposed to know, with one simple glance, anything more than the colour of their hair, or the shape of their nose, or the colour of their eyes?

How is anyone supposed to fall in _love_ by first sight alone?

It’s ludicrous. Preposterous. Downright silly.

 

Phillip Carlyle knows she is the only one for him the moment he first sets eyes on her.

(He doesn’t even know her _name_ , but he knows. Just like that.)

(The thing is; so does Anne.)

 

 

He sees her before she sees him, but only just. She’s at the lowest point of her swing when Barnum all but pushes him through the curtain, and he only has just enough time to remove his hat before she is level with him, up in the rafters of the building. Dark eyes and pink hair, a light about her that sparks something to light in his soul. Something he didn’t even know existed before now. The roaring noise of the crowd fades. His heartbeat sounds loud in his ears. She swings up to his eyelevel and he can’t even breathe. Right now, there is nothing but him and her and the sudden lurch in his chest. It lasts seconds. A lifetime. And then her momentum pulls her back, back towards the floor and the crowd and everything comes roaring back with a thunderclap.

“Who is _that_?” he gasps, feeling stunned.

“Those are the Wheeler’s. Brother and sister act. They’re winding down; I’m afraid you missed some of the fun stuff they can do up here.” Barnum pauses, takes one look at his face, and he can tell the older man is biting back a smile. “C’mon,” he says, taking Phillip’s arm, “let me introduce you.”

Numbly, dumbly, not sure if this is going to be the best moment of his life or the worst, Phillip follows Barnum back down the stairs, to where the siblings are just walking back. The echoing roar of the crowd swells, following them off. And then he is face to face with the woman he saw hanging from a bar by her legs alone, and it is all he can do to remember how to breathe. Up close, he sees the edge of a wig, and her smile seems a little tight, but her eyes are still dark pits he could fall into for days.

The actual introduction goes something like this: she and her brother own the floor the same way they own the skies; he’s a stuttering idiot. Mind blank and tongue tied, his normal suave tone filled with fumbling ‘uh’s and ‘um’s. He has never, ever uh’d or um’d in his _life_ , and here she is, making him stammer like a schoolboy. When has anyone ever had this power over him mere moments after entering his life? When? Her eyes tease with mischief, with challenge, daring him to refute her claim of not having an act, keeping him locked to her gaze as she finishes unwrapping her wrists. She walks away, confidence billowing off her in waves, blanketing her like a shawl, and he is helpless to do anything but watch her go. In the past, he would have followed, would have chased anyone who walked like that, spoke like that, but his legs seem to have forgotten how to work.

He turns back only when she is no longer in sight, and is met with a muscled chest, draped in the same shade of purple that he’s sure will haunt his dreams this night. W.D Wheeler looks at him, a searching gaze that does nothing to help install any kind of confidence, and it is all he can do to walk away and not make it look like a retreat when Barnum calls him over to see the protesters outside.

(It is only later, alone in his home and thinking back on the whirlwind he’s entered, that he realises along with her dark eyes and her teasing smile and her sharp wit she’s also dark skinned. It honestly surprises him how little he cares.)

 

 

 

She’s been forced to face comments and looks all her life. Eyes following her where words can’t, each with tips of poison. She can feel the weight of them everywhere she goes. Watching her. Judging her. In a way, her brother has it easier. Because while he is most definitely black, the same cannot be said of her. Her skin is lighter than both her mother and brother, and, while she has never known her father, the way her mother has never been able to quite look at her in the way she looks at W.D. makes the truth ring loud in the silence.

Mixed race.

Mulatto.

Half-breed.

Tainted.

She starts climbing trees almost as soon as she can walk. Higher and higher, muscles screaming. But away from the ground she feels free. Away from the looks and the words and the cruelty of the world. W.D. follows her one day, watches as she swings from branch to branch. _Like a monkey_ , he tells her later that night, _a monkey without a care in the world._ By the time she hits her teens, there isn't a tree in the area she hasn’t scaled.

Ropes come next. Tied to branches of the tallest trees she can find, she learns how to use them to her advantage. W.D looks on, until one day she dares him to follow her. She expects him to laugh, to run. But instead, he grabs one of the free ropes, pulls himself up arm over arm like he’s watched her do countless times. Using his weight, he makes the rope swing, and she can only watch and gasp in delight as he lets go at the apex of the arc, hands reaching for and grabbing the next rope in line. He grins at her as he swings on the new rope, and she cannot help the answering grin that forms. They begin making up stunts, tying large branches in lieu of an actual bar between ropes, charging a few cents to the local kids to see them fly among the branches. The words of scorn turn to gasps of delight, and now, finally, she’s free.

(When their mother passes just over a year later, they pack up what few belongings they have, and they run. The words, the taunts, the looks all follow, but now she has a way to escape.)

 

 

 

High society isn't all it’s packed out to be. Parties and soirees may look fun to an outsider, but as someone who has to attend them repeatedly, he knows the truth. The bigger the party the more lonely the host, but who can be seen to be friendless when money is involved? So the houses gets bigger, the invite lists longer, and the alcohol more free flowing. He honestly doesn’t know why Barnum wants to get involved in the whole mess, especially when an escape from that life is what drew Philip to the circus in the first place.

But he’s nothing if not true to his word, and his word is still worth something to the few contacts he has that have yet to hear just how far from the tree he has fallen. A quiet word here, and slight nudge there, and a few weeks later his work pays off. An invitation to England. To Buckingham Palace and the Queen of England, no less. The look of awe, of delight, on Barnum’s face is worth the fall his reputation will gain after this. And then, in the midst of the delight, a quiet voice asks, “Are we _all_ invited?”

He turns, faces her. He hasn’t dare mention it, but he prefers this version of her to the one that soars above his head on a daily basis. Wrapped in a woollen shawl, wig gone, make up wiped clean, she is all he can see in the room. Still facing her, ignoring the looks the rest of the troupe are giving him, he makes sure to keep his gaze steady. “I’ll guess I’ll just have to tell the Queen either all of us go,” he pauses, sweeps his gaze across the rag-tag group he’s becoming to think of as friends before turning back to her, “or none of us will.”

The cheers of the troupe are loud, but he ignores them. Instead, the small, almost shy smile she sends his way is worth more to him than any glowing critic’s review of any of his plays has ever produced.

 

 

 

She shouldn’t be here. That’s her main thought, even as she breathes in the slight salty tang on the air. Above deck, wrapped in her shawl, the night air quiet around her. She’s alone, free for the moment from the chaos of her friends, her family. But she has never been on a boat, never mind a ship. Never been close enough to the water to ever see one, and her curiosity had niggled. A gentle breeze has been blowing since she emerged from below what must have been hours ago, but now the sun has set the once pleasant cool has turned colder; her shawl not protecting her from the new bite. With a sigh, she gives one last long look to the sky before turning, intending to return to her bunk, only to stop suddenly when she realises she is no longer alone.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Mr Carlyle.” She ducks her head, fights the ever-present need to run when a well-dressed white man approaches her. Because this particular well-dressed white man is different. This particular well-dressed man is something else. Something more. (Something dangerous.) “I didn’t see you there.”

“Phillip,” he says softly, taking a step towards her. It’s been weeks, but she is still the only one to call him by his full title. Even Lettie has shortened it, dropping the Mr, the call of _Carlyle_ from her sounding more like a friendly tease, the same way she refers to their boss as _Barnum_. “Please,” he continues, “call me Phillip.” Anne gives him a hesitant look out the corner of her eye. His eyes are soft tonight, clear with no sign of the alcohol she knows he often turns to, the blue of his gaze glittering in the twilight. She almost thinks she can see stars reflecting in his gaze. When she still doesn’t say anything, he sighs. “Mr Carlyle makes me think of my father.”

She nods. “I guess I can understand that.”

Glancing around them, he seems to take in the sights around them for the first time. Facing the ocean, he moves to stand beside her at the railing. The lap of the water against the side of the ship is constant, a soothing sound in the quiet that surrounds them. “It’s nice,” he says, after a long minute. He turns to face her. “Out here, I mean.”

Anne shakes her head slightly. “It’s empty, is what it is.”

“I wouldn’t quite say that.” He gives her a small smile. It… does something in her gut. Something new. Something she doesn’t quite know how to quantify. Seemingly unaware how his mere presence is affecting her (how? How is he affecting her?) He continues, “After all, you’re here.”

She bites her lip at that. Turns back to face out to sea. She’s not quite sure what to say, so she says nothing. They fall into silence for a moment, before a gust flicks over her, stronger and cooler than before, and she shivers.

“You’re cold.” She’s about to answer, when he moves. Shrugging out of his coat, he drapes it around her shoulders. “Here.”

“Mr Carlyle… I…” she begins, shocked. “I can’t…”

“Phillip,” he interrupts her, tugging his jacket more securely around her, “it’s Phillip, Miss Wheeler, and yes, you can.”

She stares at him, words failing. Never, in all her life, has someone done something like this. To her. _For_ her. He must know what this looks like to the world. He _must_. She’s too white for the black community, and too black to ever be accepted into white, and yet, here he is. The most prim and proper of the entire circus, handing his coat off to her like she’s… like she’s what, exactly?

“Mr…” He raises his eyebrow, and she stops. Sighs. “Phillip. Please.” Glancing around them, back towards the door for a second, she turns her wide eyes back to him. “What if someone sees…?”

He shrugs. “So what if they do?”

She sighs. Speaks slowly. Not quite understanding how she has to be the one explaining to him how the world works. “What would it look like to someone like you if they saw you giving your jacket to someone like me?”

And now, his brow furrows. Puzzlement written all over him, he asks, “Someone like… A woman who’s cold?”

Anger is beginning to stain her voice. Her words. That he could act like he is with her. _Toy_ with her like this. It’s cruel, is what it is. Sharp now, she bites out, “Don’t be obtuse.”

His eyes widen. Either in shock or hurt, she’s not sure. An edge has begun to slip into his own voice when he says, “I’m not!” Anne raises an eyebrow, and he sighs. “I’m just trying to understand what you mean,” he says, voice gentle.

She shakes her head. “You,” she points to him, “a _white_ man,” she emphasises, before sighing. “And me,” she points back to herself, voice going soft, “A _black_ woman.”

His eyes go wide again. “Is that... how could…” he gasps, and this time she knows she has shocked him. His eyes darken suddenly, turning steely grey, and he hisses, “Do you honestly think that’s all I see what I look at you?”

“Phillip!” The new voice interrupts them before can respond. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over for y-” Barnum cuts himself off as he takes in the sight of the two of them, tension palpable and her still draped in his coat. Taking a step towards her, eyes flicking between them, Barnum asks, “Hey, is everything okay?”

His interruption gives her the strength and excuse she needs to flee. Trying to keep her voice steady, she nods. “Fine, Mr Barnum. Mr Carlyle was just walking me back to my room, but I can take it from here.” Turning, not quite looking at him, she shrugs out of his jacket, handing it back. “Your coat, sir.”

She sees him flinch with the new moniker, but his hand still reaches out to take the garment. “I…” he tries, but she doesn’t let him say anything else.

With a small nod, she starts towards the door. “Goodnight, Mr Barnum.” Pausing in the doorway, she turns back. Anger and hurt still pulsate off him in waves. She dips her head once. “Mr Carlyle.”

“Miss Wheeler.” His eyes lock on hers, even as his voice shifts back to a cold one she is used to, although she has never heard it coming from him.

Without another glance, she hurries inside, biting her cheek to stop the tears that threaten.

 

 

 

He watches her out of the corner of his eye as P.T. continues to talk to Jenny Lind. Sees the way she hugs her purple cloak around her, covering her more securely. He’s not deaf to the whispers going on around him, and he knows she has heard a few mutterings too. The thing is, he doesn’t care. Not about her skin colour, not about her background, not about what society might think. He’d seen the way her eyes had widened when he’s dropped his coat around her shoulders, the sudden pleasure that sparkled in her eyes for a moment before her fear kicked in. Fear of the gossip, of the talk. He’s never taken her for one to pay attention to the murmurings of the crowd, but maybe that’s just another act she has.

Leaving P.T. alone, he makes his way over. The crowd titter as he passes, but he pays them no heed. “Everyone doing okay?” He asks the group as a whole, but his eyes are only meant for her. Now that everyone isn't looking at them, the troupe have begun to relax a little. Glancing over his shoulder, he sees P.T. has been left alone. Turning back, he says, “I think we should be heading out soon.”

“Good.” The soft sigh comes from Anne, although if he hadn’t been looking right at her, he would have missed it. As it is, W.D. is the only other one to react, reaching up to squeeze his sisters hand for a moment. Phillip nods, squashing the urge to slide next to her and wrap her in his coat again. To take her away from the eyes that linger, the voices that whisper just a little too loud.

He watches as she pulls her cloak around her tighter still, the action reminding him of how she handles her shawl. How long, he wonders, has she been dealing with this?

And why does his heart ache at the thought?

“Be good to get back on home soil,” Tom says quietly. “This English air is too cold for my tastes.”

There’s a few nods of agreement. The occasional “Yeah” and “I know” too. He wonders, for the first time, if bringing everyone out here was a mistake after all.

(True to his prediction, they are back on the road by nightfall. No longer thrust into a spotlight without a performance platform, she seems more relaxed, and he takes a moment to wonder why she continues to put herself out there if she hates it so. But then he realises what the difference is. _We’re the entertainment_ , P.T. had said on the way into the grand hall. Phillip hadn’t said anything then, but looking at her now, he wonders. Just how much had the glib comment hurt? Is that why she had reacted the way she had on the outward journey? Just how much strife has she had to deal with, all because of the colour of her skin? And what can he do to prove to her that he, at least, doesn’t care?)

 

 

 

 

She’s standing on the deck again. The night air quietens her like nothing else except flying through the air can. Behind her, she hears the soft tread of a shoe pause its cadence for a second, before becoming more determined. This time, when he speaks, she’s almost anticipating it. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Forcing herself to stay still, to not run away, she keeps her gaze fixed outwards. “I’ve never seen so many stars.”

It’s not quite an answer, but isn't a non-answer either. They fall into an uneasy silence, tension building. It only lasts a few moments, but to her it feels like a lifetime. When she can stand it no more, she turns so she is more facing him than the horizon.

“I’m sorry.”  
“I’m sorry.”

He blinks, recovers first. Voice full of confusion, he gasps, “What could you _possibly_ have to be sorry for?”

Anne bites her lip. “Earlier. Before.” She waves her hand in the air for a second. “I was…” she trails off, words failing her.

“Scared?”

She shakes her head. Looking down, she whispers, “Ashamed.”

“Ash…” Voice turning incredulous, he gapes at her. “Of _what_?”

“I know what people say.” She glances up, dares to look at him for a second, before turning away again. “About me,” she adds quietly, the echoes of the taunts that have followed her all her life loud in her mind.

“Miss Wheeler…”

She cuts him off before he can get further than her name. “I also know you don’t.” This time, when she looks at him, she doesn’t defer her gaze. Seeing his brow furrow, she gives a soft shake of her head. “See me like that.”

“I don’t.” His voice is emphatic.

She smiles softly. “I know.”

They stand in silence for a moment. Running his hand through his hair, a trait she has begun to associate him with when he’s nervous or unsure, he takes a breath. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he suddenly blurts out, louder than she expects. He shakes his head for a second, before, more quietly, adding, “I just…”

Anne cuts him off gently. “Was being a gentleman.” She nods. “I know.” Looking down, she sees his fingers twitch on the rail. “It’s just…” She pauses. Breathes in. Out. Looks up and sees nothing but curiosity and kindness on his face. “I’m just not used to have people treat me the way you do.”

“The way I do,” he repeats, confusion evident.

“Like I’m…” she trails off, waves her hand in the air between them.

He takes a step closer, his hand coming up to brush a wayward tendril of hair behind her ear, making her heart pound. “Like you’re what?” he asks, softly.

She shivers in the heat of his gaze. “An equal.”

He smiles at that. Soft, gentle, the curve of his mouth lighting the corner of his eyes. “Well if that’s how you think I treat you, I must be doing something wrong.”

She ducks her head, horrified at getting it so completely wrong. Of course he doesn’t see her as an equal. Of _course_ he doesn’t. “Oh.”

Suddenly earnest, he bends his head, forcing her eyes to meet his. “I could never treat you as an equal because just one of you is worth more than a hundred of me.”

Tears spring to her eyes. There is no way he just said what he did. Eyes snapping to meet his, she gasps out, “What?”

He gives her a self-deprecating look. Sighs. Softly, he says, “Guys like me… with money and a name, we’re a dime a dozen.” Voice serious, he gives her a soft smile, pride evident. “But you… I ain’t ever seen anyone do the things you can do.” Tucking the strand of hair behind her ear again, he leans close. “You amaze me,” he tells her, awe in his tone. “Every single day. You amaze me.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, a warmth settling in her chest. The air feels heavy between them. Full of a promise she doesn’t know how to fulfil. Clearing her throat, she takes a small step back. Closing her eyes, she takes a deep breath. The scent of his cologne suffocates her senses for a moment, drowning her. Trying to get some kind of equilibrium back, she continues, “For bringing everyone out here. Lettie and Tom and everyone. I know you didn’t have to do that.”

He hasn’t moved, his warmth still strong and present at her side. “I didn’t do it for them.”

She nods. “I know.” Cracking her eyes open slightly, her voice is almost lost on the breeze. “Thank you.”

“I would do anything for you,” he whispers to the air between them. “Remember that.” He pauses, and she flicks her eyes to his for a moment. “Anything.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

His voice remains steady. Sure. “I’m not.”

His eyes hold hers for a long moment, calling to something in her soul. Something she doesn’t know how to deal with. Because despite what he says, she knows guys like him do not end up with girls like her. She can’t let herself hope; it’ll only lead to pain in the end. “I should go. Get some sleep.” Stepping past him, she pretends she doesn’t see his face fall. “Goodnight.” She turns to the doorway. Pauses. “Phillip.”

His voice is gentle. “Goodnight, Miss Wheeler.”

“Anne.”

She hears him take a step towards her. “What?”

Turning so she is facing him once more, she gives him a shy smile. “You can call me Anne.”

He smiles back, radiant. His eyes glitter, the oil-lamp glow reflected in their depths. “Goodnight.” She’s almost out of hearing when, reverence in his tone, he whispers, “ _Anne_.”

 

 

 

 

He’s knows it’s a mistake the moment he lets her go. Knows what she thinks, even if it couldn’t be further from the truth. Because told her the truth that night on the ship; he isn't ashamed of her. Nor is he afraid to be seen out in public with her. Would like nothing more than to take her out into the world on his arm and declare this is the woman for me. But he takes his hand back because it is her fear that roars to the front of his mind. While a truce was forged on the return journey, he still remembers how she acted when he slipped his coat around her shoulders. If she won’t even take his jacket to shield her form the chill on a deck no one is on, what would she do if she knew other people could see?

The look he sees out of the corner of his eye before she turns and walks away tells him immediately of his misstep, but propriety and upbringing stops him making a scene. So instead of following her like every instinct in his is crying out for him to do, as soon as he is able, he makes for the nearest bar. The sting of whiskey is an old friend, and he nurses his way though most of a bottle before his courage returns enough to make it to the circus.

The gang are mid-performance, nothing but nothing standing in their way of defining their own place in the world, and just for a moment he wishes he was brave enough to stand with them. Anne sees him out of the corner of her eye, and meets his gaze with sparks of fire and defiance in her own. _See me and accept me for who I am_ , she demands, and he has to step away. Slumps back to his office, to the bottle he keeps hidden in the bottom drawer. Gulps down another shot, but her eyes still haunt his mind.

 _I do_ , he wants to tell her. _I **do** see you_.

(He does so much more than that.)

 

 

 

 

The theatre has always been somewhere she has wanted to go, but never had the courage to face. Talk of her buying her freedom, of not deserving to be there, or being a second class citizen… she’s heard it all before, all that and worse. But Barnum gives her the information, even goes as far as to pick out a dress for her. Barnum doesn’t let her say no, and so, trying to blend into the shadows as much as possible, she approaches the ticket office. The second ticket is a shock, but the voice that suddenly appears at her ear tells her all she needs to know.

She turns, words of denial, of refusal on the tip of her tongue, when he says, shyly, “I wasn’t sure you’d come if I asked.”

He wants her there.

The opera outing rears big and ugly in the background a warning to her heart, her head. But still, he wanted to bring her here, so much so he managed to get their erstwhile boss to orchestrate her movements. He’s trying. He’s actually trying, for her, and she’s never had anyone try like that before.

She takes his arm.

And of course, of course it is a disaster.

Being referred to as _the help_ isn't the worst she’s ever been called, could possibly be even seen as progressive for someone with such a shrewd view of the world, but the look and the disdain on the elder Carlyle’s face… she can see why Phillip doesn’t want to be associated with him.

It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, though.

She can hear Phillip calling after her as she flees, but she can’t go back. Not now, not ever. Not when she’s doing this for him. Not when she can save him from ever being faced with the looks and the words and the comments. He follows, his voice breaking as he asks her to try, but she can’t. She _can’t_. She loves him too much to make him go through a tenth of what she is faced with on a daily basis. And oh, it hurts. Lord does it hurt. Denying them both what they want is like ripping her heart out, ripping her lungs out; she can’t _breathe_. But she must, it is the only way to save him.

She would do anything to save him.

 

 

 

P.T has been gone for weeks now, and Phillip’s trying to keep his head above water in an ever-rising flood. Most nights he manages, but there are still the occasional ones where the call of the whiskey burn is stronger than the cheer of the crowd. Watching Anne fall from the rafters every night doesn’t exactly help the situation either. W.D. sees it, of course. But there is a knowing about his look, almost a pity in his gaze that makes Phillip’s chest ache.

The performance tonight is one of their better ones; their gate has improved, and there aren’t any protesters that manage to slip inside. For once, he doesn’t have to try to keep the crowd drawn to the action in the ring; he can just relax. He spots Anne and W.D. leave the ring, cheers loud in their wake. W.D. nods at him in passing; Anne can’t quite meet his gaze. And it is this, her pain an echo of his own, which makes him take an unsteady step towards her.

“You know,” he calls, only loud enough for her to hear, “you asked me, once.” He’s slurring, the whiskey sloshing through his blood like poison. Like salvation. “You asked me what my act was.”

Anne stops her retreat, lowers her head. “Phillip.”

He takes this as encouragement. “I said,” he begins, taking a step towards her. Coming up so he can whisper, he asks, “Do you remember what I said?”

She turns her head slightly, eyes closed. “You said you didn’t have one.”

“That’s right.” He nods quickly. Taking another step, he guides them to a darkened corner. If he were sober, he would be outraged at his behaviour; as it is, all he can think is making his point without an audience. “I didn’t have one.” He sighs, doesn’t see the way she winces at the scent of the alcohol staining his breath. “But you know, I think I finally worked it out.”

She bites her lip. A shy move that makes his soul cry in want. “Worked… what?”

“My act.” He nods at her. “I know what I do.”

“And what’s that?”

“I pretend I’m not hopelessly in love with you.”

She sucks in a breath. Even drunk, he can feel the pain in it. Voice breaking, she begins to reach for him, only to pull back at the last second. “Phillip… I don’t…”

“Don’t say you don’t feel it too,” he bites out, almost harshly. “I know you do.” Quietly, he shakes his head. Eyes and voice brimming with pain, he gazes at her in longing. “I know you do,” he says again, softly this time. “And it breaks my heart every single day that you won’t even let us try.”

Before she can say anything else, before she can move, he does the hardest thing he has ever done in his life.

He turns and walks away.

 

 

 

The fire is raging. Burning hot and bright, a wall of flames between her and the rest of the troupe. She sees them flee for the front door as she gets to the bottom of the stairs, her eyes sweeping the forms, taking in W.D. and Phillip, Lettie supported under the latter’s arm. She wants to cry out to wait for her, but at that moment the fire cuts a curtain across her, cutting her off.

She runs for the back exit. Making her way to the front, she sees Barnum first, and then W.D. is there, his arms holding her tight. She looks around, her eyes searching, but Phillip isn't there. W.D. is and Lettie is but Phillip isn't and he was there with them, she knows he was. He was getting everyone else out and the only reason she left like she did was because she knew he was safe and god, where is he?

And then Barnum starts yelling his name, facing the blazing ruin of their home, and she feels a dread like a weight sink in her stomach.

No. Please, god, no.

As their boss runs into the flames, she can only stand in shock, watching on. Why would he go back? Why? She ignores the voice at the back of her brain that is yelling at her that she knows the answer to this.

And then the roof of the building falls, and her blood freezes.

Unable to look, she turns and buries her head in her brother’s shoulders, tears running unchecked. Her heart is pounding, silence echoing loudly in her brain, and all she can think is she never said it back.

She said she wanted him, but she never said she loved him. And now she never will.

Hannah’s yell permits the bubble she’s in, and her head flies up in the direction of the inferno. Somehow, Barnum is there, staggering back towards them, and in his arms…

Phillip.

His name is a mantra, a plea, a voice screaming in her head. She’d do anything to save him, she remembers thinking once. Even at the expense of her own life. It never occurred to her, despite everything, he would do the same.

And then Barnum says two magical words, and she feels the world start turning again. “He’s breathing.”

 

 

 

He doesn’t know how long he has been asleep. He just knows he hurts. Everywhere. His head and his hands and his chest. Oh god his chest. Pain more than physical, an ache so deep he doesn’t know how it will ever heal. Doesn’t know if he wants it to. Memories of the fire run rapid across his mind, even through the drug fuelled haze. He knows he failed. And the battered and beaten organ in his chest cries with the thought of never seeing her again. So he stays still. Lets time pass him by, trying to come to terms with his new reality of a life without her sink in before allowing the world to barge in.

But no matter how much he tries, eventually his body takes over, and his fingers twitch. He hears a hitched breath, a return squeeze, and for the first time he realises he’s not alone. Someone is here, someone is holding his hand, perched on the side of his bed. He squeezes the hand again, eyes cracking open, and promptly hallucinates.

Vividly.

Anne is sat on his bed, tears in her eyes and hands wrapped around his. He blinks, and she stays. She stays, and he has to ask, has to, hope daring to breathe life into his words. “You’re here?”

Instead of an answer, she leans down, presses her lips to his. Every nerve in his body sets alight, joy and wonder flooding his system. She’s here. Oh god, she’s actually _here_. She pulls away, but he cannot let her go. Slipping his hand over her cheek, he tugs her back, kisses her again. And again and again and again. There’s a gasp and a murmur, he can feel eyes trained on them. But he doesn’t give a damn, and kisses her again.

He loves this woman, has from the first moment he saw her; the rest of the world can just go hang.

 

 

They say the most painful kind of love is that which is unrequited.

(They’re wrong.)

* * *

End

 


End file.
